


Oikawa's 8

by thericeraven



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Angst, Fluff, Heist, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Minor Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi, Mutual Pining, Ocean's 8 AU, basically they rob shiratorizawa, emotionally constipated iwaoi, no prior ocean's 8 knowledge needed, power couples bokuaka and iwaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26909365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thericeraven/pseuds/thericeraven
Summary: Five years, eight months, twelve days and counting—that's how long Oikawa Tooru has been devising for the biggest heist of his life. Fresh out of prison, he sets his plans into motion. He knows what it's going to take—a team of the best people in the field, starting with his partner-in-crime Iwaizumi Hajime. Together, they recruit a crew of specialists: including fashion designer Bokuto, jeweller Akaashi, hacker Kodzuken, street con and pickpocket Hinata, and the profiteer Sugawara. Their target? The Shiratorizawa jewels—a necklace worth more than a whopping $150 million.Will partnerships forged new and old grow stronger? Will alliances stay true through the trials and tribulations that await them in the criminal life? Will plans hold steady even when they don't go off without a hitch? Most of all,will the crew pull off the heist without getting caught?
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Hinata Shouyou/Kozume Kenma, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 47
Kudos: 151





	1. hello, world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Oikawa gets out of prison, goes on a self-sanctioned shopping trip, secures himself a hotel room, and contacts an old friend.

“Good afternoon, Oikawa-san.”

The metal chair felt cold and rigid against his spine.

“As you know, parole is a privilege,” the hearing examiner began, never once breaking his stare. “And one of the restrictions on any parolee is to avoid the company of any person who has a criminal record of any kind.”

His face was firm and ungiving, but Oikawa nodded patiently in response.

“That includes most of your extended family.”

“Yes, that’s obviously not something I’m proud of,” Oikawa said grimly.

“Would this pose an impossible challenge for you?”

“No.” His voice was resolute. “No I—I don’t want that life, I never wanted that life. My sisters, they were criminals. I love them but I can’t deny that they fell on the wrong side of the law, it was in their blood.”

“And it’s not in your blood?”

“No, no sir.” Oikawa’s hands were clenched tight on the table. He let out a shaky breath, as if willing himself to continue speaking. “I fell out with the wrong person. I let my pride overtake me. It was a mistake, but uh, it happened.”

The examiner remained silent.

“And if—if I were to be released, I would—um,” he tried to continue, his fingers digging into the scratched plastic tabletop. “Sorry, give me a moment. Um.”

Oikawa’s breaths were coming in shallow spurts, his vision starting to blur. Any moment now, and he would be embarrassing himself by  _ crying _ , of all things. He hadn’t cried in five years, and now he was about to break down in the middle of his parole hearing, it was kind of pathetic really. With everyone looking at him, he was finding it a little hard to keep it together. 

“Sorry, it’s just, it’s so hard,” he murmured, quieter now. “Just saying that. Is so  _ hard _ .”

Quickly blinking away the heat pooling under his eyes, he continued.

“If I were to be released,” he said with absolution. “I just want a simple life. I just want to hold down a job, make some friends, play a sport, volleyball probably. I want to eat whatever I want, go buy some milk bread, eat ramen from the konbini, put on a show on the TV until I go to sleep. I want to dance in the rain, go for a walk after work, get some fresh air—”

He smiled sadly—a wistful look in his eyes—thinking about the life he was going to lead. It had five years,  _ five  _ whole years of staring at the same bleak grey walls, distant and isolated from the outside world. Prison wasn’t the kindest of places, and he had been holding up pretty well during his incarceration, but now that he was facing a crossroads—a moment of hope that seemed too good to be true—his steely facade was quickly crumbling around him. 

“—and pay my bills.” He looked back up to meet the examiner’s stare, sniffling for good measure. His eyes and nose must have been red by now. 

“I want nothing but a simple life.”

“Simple life?” Hanamaki shot him a questioning look, sliding the release form over the counter to Oikawa. “Nice one.”

“Heard about that?” 

“Who didn’t?” The prison officer scoffed from behind the desk. “Sign here.”

Twirling the pen in his hand, Oikawa signed his name across the paper, the twist of his wrist and the sound of the scratchy ballpoint echoing through the lobby with a finality. It felt so good to finally have his first taste of autonomy in years—to be wearing his own clothes, to be walking his own steps, to be signing his own name. 

It was written in ink and immortalized on paper:  _ Oikawa Tooru was finally free. _

Well, not completely, but he did love taking things one step at a time.

“Here’s your stuff.” Hanamaki handed him all the things he came in with five years ago, bagged in sterile plastic and dusty from neglect. There wasn’t a lot he had to claim in his name. Just some money, a bandaid, and something he had been putting aside for a long time now.

“Mm,” Oikawa hummed in appreciation.

He stuck his hand into the bag and fished out a phone. It was a dusty old flip phone, nothing remarkable really. He ran his fingers across the dusty surface, tracing a line through the grooves of the old, grey model. Five years. It’s been five years.

“Nice phone,” Hanamaki remarked.

“It was a gift from someone very dear to me.”

Oikawa offered no further explanation, but Hanamaki didn’t press.

“There’ll be a new shipment coming in next week,” Oikawa lowered his voice. “You can take a cut and a few extra cartons.”

Hanamaki cocked an eyebrow.

“I want you to trade them, not smoke them.”

“Whatever you say,” Hanamaki replied, shrugging. “So, where are you going?”

“Well, I have about 4000 yen and an insatiable craving for milk bread,” Oikawa sighed, shrugging on his coat. “I can go anywhere I want.”

He grabbed on his stuff and turned on his heel. It was about time he left this god-awful place.

“See you around, Oikawa.”

“Not in these parts, Makki.” Oikawa flashed him one last smile over his shoulder. “Not in these parts.”

The glaring heat of the sun on Oikawa’s back was a welcome respite from the cold, stark interior of the correctional facility (which was really just a nice way of saying  _ prison _ ). It was nearing the end of spring, and tufts of grass peeked through the stark grey of the prison walls behind him as he exited the gate. He could even spy a few tiny flowers if he tried.

Putting his feet into motion, he walked and didn’t look back. 

It was strange. He was really walking now, walking with a destination, walking with intention, walking on actual concrete that saw the rain, snow, and sun. He stretched out his legs with every walk, his loafers connecting with the pavement and his coat sure around his shoulders.. There would be no more stupid orange prison garb for this criminal anymore.

The world around him was an explosion of colors and smells and sounds, a far cry from the grey, white, and black that greeted him every morning when he woke up in his cell. There was no one around save for the occasional car, the roads barren in this part of the country. It was quite a walk away to the nearest main road, but he was only glad to make the journey on foot. 

His gait was slightly unsteady, but he was starting to feel like himself again. As far as the parole board knew, he was simply a repentant inmate ready to see the world again and start a new and simple life. Of course, that was far from the truth. There was a certainty growing with every step he took further and further away from the prison, a fire blazing in his eyes as his plans rang true in his head. Five years ago, he had decided that he wasn’t about to let his precious time go to waste. 

Taking a moment to himself, Oikawa stood on the corner of a crossroads that led into the city.

He knew what he had to do.

Oikawa hailed a taxi all the way to the Tokyo city center, where he offered a thankful smile and hopped out in front of a large department store. The drive here had been surreal, but now that he was standing and staring up at the towering buildings and absorbing the bustle of the city around him, all of it felt so  _ real _ and present.

The world had changed so much in the time that he was gone, but he hadn’t lost his touch. 

A confident and easy smile on his face, Oikawa strolled through the glass doors, letting the air-conditioning and the music overhead wash over him. He offered a tiny smile to all the sales clerks whose heads instantly turned when he walked by, vying to make a sale to someone dressed as smartly as he was. That’s not what he was here for, though. 

Smiling, he walked through the aisles of cosmetic products, letting his eyes roam over the variety of colors and packaging. The smell of expensive perfumes and exotic scents filled him up with a heady glee as he wove through shelves and display cases. They had the tester samples out on display, and Oikawa picked up one of the heavier-looking ones. Just a light spritz and he was set, nobody would be any the wiser.

Moisturizer, toner, and sunscreen. He could definitely use some of that. Even shaving was a luxury in prison, much less skincare, and he very much enjoyed having smooth, baby-soft skin, thank you very much. He grabbed what he needed, and stalked off into the next aisle. He soon found himself in the hair product section, where they stored travel-sized cans of hairspray and vats of branded wax. Sighing, he grabbed a vat of hair wax. He  _ was _ a sucker for hair products after all.

He proceeded to the back of the store, where the counter for returns sat.

“Excuse me, I would like to return these,” Oikawa requested, his smile charming as ever.

“Of course, do you have your receipt sir?” The salesperson inquired, matching his smile.

“Oh no, I lost it when I threw the bag away but these are unopened! I haven’t even touched the packaging much so—”

“I’m so sorry, sir, but I can’t accept a return without a receipt.”

“They’re sealed, practically brand new, could you please work something out for me please?” He tried to look as distraught as possible.

“I understand, but we have a strict return policy and cannot accept—”

“That’s okay, it’s okay,” Oikawa said quietly, nodding in quiet distress. “It was a gift, and I thought it was a good gift, but my girlfriend told me to return it. Guess I don’t know what’s a good gift for a lady anymore these days.”

The salesperson offered him a sympathetic smile. 

“I’d be happy to help you if you do find your receipt, sir,” she continued. “In the meantime, I’m sure you’ll find a better gift. I’m sure you’ll find something suitable for her on the second level, where we’re hosting a sale for higher-end cosmetic products.”

“Thank you very much for your help,” Oikawa beamed. “I’ll be sure to check it out.”

He turned to leave, but stopped in his tracks.

“Can I have a bag to keep these in?” he asked. “My girlfriend, she was hurrying me out of the car and I’m in a bit of a rush—”

“Say no more, sir.” The salesperson fetched him a shopping bag with the department store’s logo printed gaudily on the front and back. “Here you go.”

“Thank you very, very much,” he affirmed. “I don’t know what I’d do without the good customer service in here. Do you have an email? A customer feedback platform, perhaps?”

A little positive affirmation went a long way.

“ _ Oh _ .” She looked shocked, but the shock soon melted into a pleasant surprise. “Yes sir, the details are on the bag itself.”

“Perfect.” He grinned, and turned on his heel. “You have yourself a nice day.”

With the bag in his hand and his products secured, he made his way out into the daylight.

Looks like he hadn’t lost his touch, after all.

His steps echoed across the hotel lobby, his hands full with various shopping bags. His woollen coat held up well in the moderately cold air of the lobby, and he looked right at home in his pressed suit and glasses. The place was huge, the ceiling high and the glass elevators dinging as they made their ascent and descent in the background. The sun outside was dipping below the horizon, a golden light washing over the smooth marble floor, and large, circular pillars held up the foundation of the hotel. A shiny brass adorned all of the doors and swerved into a delightful pattern on the walls. 

Oikawa clicked his tongue and nodded. This would do. 

“My husband and I are checking out of room 2814.” A couple stood at the reception desk. The lady who spoke up was dressed in the most opulent evening gown Oikawa had seen in a while.“It was booked under the name of Nakai Kenta.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” The receptionist said pleasantly. “We hope you had a pleasant stay.”

“Terrific,” the lady said, voice smooth and agreeable.

“If there’s anything else I can do, or arrange transportation—”

“I think we’re all set,” the lady said patiently. “We have a flight to catch.”

“Thank you for staying with us,” the receptionist handed her the receipt.

Oikawa breezed past as the couple left the reception desk.

_ Ichika _ , he noted, catching a quick glimpse of the receptionist’s name tag.

Settling into a plush lounge chair in the lobby that was just slightly too overstuffed for his taste, Oikawa watched as the couple wheeled their luggage all the way to the sidewalk outside the hotel. He waited until they hopped into a taxi that was to go all the way to the airport. The sun was quickly setting outside, painting the sky a beautiful darkening orange. It was only a matter of moments before he got to admire the scenery.

Strolling out the twin glass doors of the hotel, he located the nearest payphone right around the corner. He had just enough money to make one call.

“Good evening, is this the Belken Hotel?” Oikawa spoke into the phone. “Yes, my wife and I just checked out of room 2814, and we were helped by a receptionist Ichika-san? I’m not sure if I got the name right—”

A pause.

“Yes, yes, I would like to speak to her, thank you.”

He glanced at his watch. 7p.m.

“Hello, this is Kenta-san, my wife and I just left the hotel about twenty minutes ago,” he explained. “Our flight got cancelled and we’re going to need the room another night, if that’s possible?”

Ichika, he supposed, spoke on the other end of the line.

“Yes, yes, room 2814.” He leaned back against the wall of the phone booth. “Oh bless you. We’re just going to grab a quick bite now and we’ll be back at the hotel in a bit.”

He nodded.

“Thank you so much for your help and oh! Would it be possible to get a maid in there now? Yes, thank you, I appreciate the quick service very much. Goodbye.”

Smiling to himself, Oikawa left the phone booth and walked back to the hotel. He walked in through the glass doors and all the way to the glass elevators with an air of confidence and poise about him. This was the confidence of a man who had seen the pits of hell and rose back again like a phoenix, ready to take over the world. He was ready. It had taken five years, but Oikawa Tooru was finally ready to take on the world.

The elevator doors opened on the 28th floor. The pleasant beige wallpaper and soft plush carpeting gave the floor a much quieter and muted feel than the extravagance of the lobby. The only sounds around were the clicking of doors and the padded footsteps that signified any sign of human life behind these heavy doors. 

He headed off towards room 2814.

The maid’s cart stood lonely outside the door, which was slightly ajar. 

_ Bingo _ .

“Hello there, terribly sorry but could you finish this up later?” Oikawa entered the room to find the maid fixing up the pillows. “I’ve just  _ got _ to get off my feet.”

“Of course, sir. Sorry,” the maid said, gathering the rest of her things as she hurried out.

Oikawa was alone now.

The room was grand. Spacious. It offered a tantalizing view of the Tokyo cityscape at night, the city bursting to life as the sky turned deep blue. The bed was already made, and the lampshade sitting on the dresser flooded the room with a warm yellow. The room was outfitted with a connected bathroom, which came with a bathtub, a goddamn  _ bathtub _ , and all the amenities one would expect for a hotel this fancy. A smaller picture window was cut into the wall right above the tub, and it was making him strangely excited. He was so high up, and everything was so  _ quiet _ now.

Drawing himself a hot bath, Oikawa sank down into the water. The warm light of the bathroom glistened off the slippery white porcelain, the suds slowly rising up to meet him as he lay back against the edge. A lavender scent filled the entire bathroom, and he could feel the weight of the world lifting off his shoulders as the water unwinded all the knots in his back, easing him into a state of relaxation that he hadn’t known in years. This was a luxury, and by god was he going to make the most of it.

As he soaked in the warmth that seeped all the way into his bones, he unearthed something from the pile of clothes on the ledge beside him: the phone.

There was only one number saved in the contacts. 

He clicked on it and pulled up the message screen.

The model was what most would call  _ primitive _ —the letters rubbed off the keys and the screen a dull shade—but Oikawa was familiar enough with the device to punch out the message without too much effort. He read it over and over again, the black monospaced font staring back at him, the white of the screen glaring in the soft light of the bathroom.

After a long moment of consideration, he hit send.

_ Hello, Iwa-chan _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, I say as I jump into another longfic with 8732873 other drafts on my plate. However, this au is something I've been wanting to write for a long time now—ever since I watched Ocean's 8 in fact, and I have finally gotten around to writing it. I know the movie itself is filled with technical errors and loopholes and leaps of logic, and I will do all that I can to finetune my plot to avoid those, but I still want to stay true to the essence of the film.
> 
> And that's why I opted not to devise a more ingenious method of shoplifting and hotel-room-acquiring that wouldn’t be so illogical because I wanted to incorporate charming, totally-straight conman Oikawa. I was going to go the flirting route, but I think his natural charm just exudes in ways other than flirting so here we go. And did I google ‘Tokyo City Hotels’ and pick out one of the first few I found? Yes. 
> 
> This chapter is just one short scene after one another, but in future chapters I will definitely be writing a more seamless and detailed expansion of individual scenes, so yes, this is going to be a hell of a wild ride.
> 
> here are my [socials](https://thericeraven.carrd.co)


	2. old faces, new places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Iwaizumi receives a damning text, and old faces reveal themselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c'mon man, debbie and lou obviously had some history between them that suggested they were more than just friends. I mean, partner. PARTNER. we need more representation in the media and I'm here to deliver this mutual pining, emotionally-constipated extravaganza of slowburn with iwaoi so buckle in for this wild ride.

The static grumbling of the TV was punctuated by the clinking of bottles and the sloshing of liquid. Seated on the dingy leather couch, Iwaizumi flipped through a travel magazine as he watched the four at work. The pages were a little yellowed and the pictures a little smudged, but the depictions of the Miyagi coastline weren’t all too bad. It’s been a while since he’s seen the sea, but he wasn’t in any particular mood to go back. 

Some rerun of an American show was playing, _Judge Judy_ was it called? Iwaizumi wasn’t too familiar with American media content. One didn’t have much time to watch shows about law and justice when one was too busy committing crime.

Of course, his men did not share the same view. 

The buzz of the fluorescent lights kept them all standing at attention, save for the occasional furtive glance towards the screen, trying to catch bits and pieces of the story.

This did not go unnoticed.

“Guys,” Iwaizumi said gruffly. “It’s 9.30.”

The pouring continued, and so did the TV.

“Too much, too much.” He rose to his feet. “ _Too much_.”

A bunch of faces looked up at him.

“That’s three fingers from the top,” he continued, placing his own fingers against one of the filled bottles for good measure. “Not one, it’s _three_.”

He snatched the funnel off the top of a vodka bottle.

“It’s a rerun, Kindaichi,” he said bluntly. “You can watch it when you’re not too busy overfilling the bottles.”

Kindaichi blanched.

Iwaizumi handed him a shot.

“What’s it taste like?”

“Vodka,” Kindaichi announced.

“Vodka, exactly.” Iwaizumi folded his arms, his leather jacket snug around his shoulders. “But I don’t want vodka, I want vodka _and_ water. Do you wanna know why?”

“Uh, sure,” Kindaichi replied.

“Because when you’re drunk, it tastes like vodka,” he said, flashing every one of them a look to make sure that every one of them was listening to him. 

Of course, they were.

“Right,” Kindaichi said, understanding dawning upon his face.

“ _Right_ ,” Iwaizumi echoed, slapping him on the shoulder and turning on his heel.

He left the room and strolled out into the club, letting the loud electronic music wash over him as he descended the stairs. He paused to look out upon the throes of dancing, drunk people swaying to the beat as his people weaved through the crowd with the finished bottles from a previous batch. Things seemed to be going well tonight, and will continue to go well as long as Kindaichi in the back wasn’t too fixated on an American TV show to get the ratio of water and vodka right. 

He let himself bounce to the beat as he cut through the crowd, making his way straight towards the back of the club. Iwaizumi walked with a swift but weary gait, hands in his pockets and a hardness in his eyes—it was a walk that could part any crowd and command any room. Everyone around here knew who he was, and everyone around here knew you moved out of the way whenever Iwaizumi Hajime walked into a room. 

Ducking behind the bar, he wove past the occasional barkeep and in through the kitchen.

He found an empty doorway that opened up onto a deserted back alley and a beautiful view of the night sky outside. Finally some peace and quiet. Fishing out his phone from his pocket, he leaned against the doorframe.

 _( 1 ) Message from_ **_Shittykawa_ ** : _Hello, Iwa-chan_.

He sighed. It was a deep sigh, but one that was thinly veiled by annoyance and acceptance. For you see, this sigh had an undertone of fondness, but Iwaizumi would never admit that. 

The phone felt heavy in his hands.

He looked up towards the night sky.

There were more stars in the sky tonight, and they were all _shining_.

»»————- ————-««

The umbrella shook with the force of the falling rain, the sidewalk slick under his feet.

Oikawa watched the house from afar, a good distance from the front porch. It was quaint and much smaller than he remembered it to be, the blinds drawn shut and the doors closed. The front yard was entirely silent, and the place empty, which was to be expected. The driveway had been cleared of leaves, and the shingles on the roof were clean and uncluttered. The bicycles by the door had been moved, and the rain drums relocated in his absence. It felt like nobody had lived here in years, and that may as well be the case. 

This was once his home, too. _His family home_.

“I know you’re there, Irihata-sensei,” Oikawa sighed. “You can come on out.”

A shorter man emerged into view.

“I was simply worried about my protégé.”

“By hiding and sneaking about behind me?” Oikawa raised an eyebrow. He turned to look at his former mentor. Five years had caught up to the man, who had a little more white in his hair and a little more stagger in his step. It’s been a while. “What are you doing here?”

“They thought I’d be the best one to talk to you,” Irihata explained.

Pursing his lips, Oikawa turned away. 

“Gotta go.”

“They didn’t want you to do this, Oikawa.” Irihata followed after Oikawa.

“Do what?” Oikawa stopped to look at him with a questioning stare.

“Well, whatever it is you wouldn’t tell us you were going to do!” the older man exclaimed. They both knew very well what Oikawa was about to do. “Look, Oikawa. Look at me.”

“Hm,” Oikawa murmured, standing in place and waiting for him to go on.

“Sometimes just _knowing_ the job will work is satisfactory enough,” Irihata said, his voice heavy. “You don’t actually have to do it.”

Irihata stared at Oikawa, his eyes heavy with unspoken words. _You don’t have to do this. You still have so much time ahead of you. It’s been so long and you’re still going down this path_ . _When will you ever realize that you were always good enough_? Of course, he said none of them. 

Oikawa’s face remained still. He was well aware that the man was talking from personal experience, but unfortunately experience wasn’t universal. He shook his head.

“What else did they say?”

“Well, they said it was brilliant.” Irihata’s voice grew quieter. “And that you would probably end up _back in prison_.”

“I’m not going to end up back in prison,” Oikawa said firmly. “Okay?”

He matched his former mentor’s stare with a reassuring but challenging intensity. He was never going back, and that much he was certain of. This was a path that he wanted to go down. It was a path that he had made up his mind to go back down all those years ago. He was ready now. 

A car horn sounded behind them.

“I gotta go,” Oikawa whispered. 

He lay a hand on the old man’s shoulder—a promise.

“Be careful,” Irihata said.

“See you around, sensei.”

With that, Oikawa turned out of the driveway, leaving the man standing alone in front of what used to be a home. 

A black van had pulled up to the side of the road, the windows tinted and the doors unlocked.

The instant he got in out of the rain, a firm smack on his back echoed through the front seat.

“Been in the slammer,” Oikawa declared, as if that wasn’t obvious enough.

“Oh, really? Thought you just changed your number,” Iwaizumi quipped, kicking the van into motion. They pulled out of the neighborhood, the scenery slowly changing to trees and plains and fields, the city melting away behind them.

“Did you get the credit line?” 

“Not yet.” Iwaizumi turned to look at him.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what it’s for.” Iwaizumi shrugged, flashing Oikawa a look.

“Oh my god,” Oikawa sighed quietly, head tilting away towards the window.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Iwaizumi cocked an eyebrow at him. Then he launched into a dramatic reenactment of the world-weary sigh that Oikawa carried with him every time things didn’t go exactly the way he wanted. The man was uncannily patient, but he definitely didn’t adopt the demeanor to go with it. He was always making some manner of a grumpy or disgruntled or disappointed expression every time he didn’t get his way. It should’ve been annoying, but Iwaizumi had grown to enjoy Oikawa’s faces, which only made him even more angry. 

“That would be my ‘I’ve been in jail for five years and my partner just let me down’ face,” Oikawa huffed, sinking deeper into the seat.

Iwaizumi briefly thought his pout looked adorable, but he banished the thought from his head, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His anger had not been forgotten, and he doubted he would ever forget the turmoil he had felt these five years without Oikawa. He didn’t have to go and catch feelings for the man along the way, but look where he was. 

“I’m not your partner,” he stated. _He couldn’t be_.

“ _Yet_ ,” Oikawa said.

There was a certain loaded quality to his tone that Iwaizumi had no idea how to decipher, and he wasn’t going to start losing sleep over it at this point. Turning to the road, he pushed his face into a stony expression, tamping down the ache in his chest.

They drove in silence for a while. It was a comfortable silence, but one that was leaden with the years of everything left unsaid and all the feelings that have been felt and all the secrets that could never be told. The two of them were really here again. It felt like nothing had changed and they were right back at the start, but both of them knew that was so far from the truth.

They pulled into the carpark of a relatively empty compound, devoid of anything save for the scattered cars and piles of fallen leaves. The ocean churned in the distance, the sun hanging low and threatening to dip below the horizon.

“This is nice,” Oikawa said. “Chain link, barbed wire.”

“Mm,” Iwaizumi made a gruff noise, pulling them into a lot.

“I hope I remembered your appalling taste in style,” Oikawa snorted, revealing a box out of nowhere. Nestled in its midst was a pair of cufflinks. They were a _beautiful_ shade of navy blue and off-white, but Iwaizumi would never tell him that. Was this a gift?

Gaping, he took the box.

“Oh, um.” He fought to get something out of his mouth at the very least. “Can I exchange something you stole?”

“You can tell me if you don’t like my gift, Iwa-chan.” Oikawa said, a little smile playing on his face. “And if you have a problem with stealing, you’re not going to like the rest of this conversation.” 

“Aw what, we’re gonna shoplift?”

“Maybe,” Oikawa chuckled, turning his head away. 

The cityline in the distance looked gorgeous from here. 

“See, this is what you do.” Iwaizumi slammed his hand down on the steering wheel to emphasize his point. He could feel the emotion bubbling up inside of him, threatening to tear away his calm and familiar facade and reveal what he really felt about everything. “You make me guess, and then I’m interested. And then just because you think I’m interested—”

They made brief eye contact for a second, worlds exploding between them.

“—you think that I wanna do it. And—”

“Don’t you want to do things you’re interested in?” Oikawa interrupted.

“Well, I’m interested in brain surgery,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. _I’m interested in you_.

“Well _that’s_ not going to happen.”

Sighing, Iwaizumi threw up his hands in resignation.

“Whatever, you don’t wanna tell me—”

“It’s jewels.”

Huffing out a laugh, Iwaizumi turned to him. 

His face fell a little when he realized that Oikawa was absolutely serious about this.

“Spectacular, great big bling-y, big old jewels that are locked in a vault fifty feet underground.” Oikawa even tacked on a smile at the end.

Iwaizumi looked out into the distance. The call of a gull broke the silence.

“How are we getting into the vault?”

“You’ll see.”

Iwaizumi was familiar with the various elusive tactics that Oikawa used when he was trying to lay out his story. He knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the man if he kept prying and pressing from the start. So he played along. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in this gig. It’s been a long while since he’s done anything big, really. Conning drunk bar-goers with diluted vodka in his own club wasn’t exactly a dream job. Doing this with Oikawa was either the cherry on top of the cake, or a time bomb waiting to happen.

Pushing through the swinging double doors that led them into a wide foyer space, he led Oikawa through the building that would serve as a temporary base for their operations. There was a heavy smell of must in the air and an easy warm glow from the lamps that revealed a three-storey house of sorts. A table had been set up in the middle, heavy wood and sturdy legs. Furniture lay scattered around the place, a floral wallpaper put up against the walls. The place seemed well-stocked enough, and would do its job perfectly.

Looking up in approval, Oikawa grinned, walking in like he already owned the place.

Iwaizumi thought his eyes sparkled in the dim light.

“Well, nice place.”

“Try heating it,” Iwaizumi said. “There’s a room for you upstairs.”

“Aw, so you do care, Iwa-chan.” 

Iwaizumi didn’t have to look to know that his grin had widened.

“There’s dust upstairs too, maybe rats,” he said. “Have fun, Shittykawa.”

“Haven’t gotten rid of that nickname yet I see.”

“I could say the same for you, Trashykawa,” Iwaizumi huffed.

“Five years later and you’re still mean as ever, Iwa-chan!”

Iwaizumi let out a little snort at that.

“I see prison hasn’t changed you.”

“It’ll take a lot more than prison to change me!” Oikawa remarked, throwing himself onto a plush seat and throwing his hands up in the air. “The world hasn’t seen the best of me yet.”

“When the world sees the best of you it’ll all be over for us common folk,” Iwaizumi grunted. He marched back out through the doors, ready to return to his club. He needed to go dunk his head in a river or something, or maybe drink five cans of energy drink to put up with the shit that Oikawa was totting around his parlor. This was too much for him. 

With a weary sigh, Oikawa offered a soft laugh behind him.

“That’s the plan, Iwa-chan. _That’s the plan_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically iwaoi is just debbie and lou but with +5 sexual tension
> 
> my updating schedule will be about a chapter every 1-2 weeks here on out since I'm working on some other longfics as well as writing for a zine and doing bangs so yes, have this chapter. I'm really feeling the story and I'm getting a better sense of the iwaoi dynamics in this au
> 
> here are my [socials](https://thericeraven.carrd.co)


	3. take a trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Kageyama meets an old face from the past, and Oikawa and Iwaizumi face the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to put Kageyama in the place of Claude, but rest assured that he's not going to be as sleazy as the wretched man. I'm giving our boy a layered backstory and detailed characterization bits so you can look forward to watching his story unfold.

Donning a clean blue trench coat and black dress pants that hugged his legs in the cold of the night, Oikawa sauntered down the streets of Miyagi with a purpose. The night air was fresh and cool, and anybody who’s anybody was out and about in the city, where the lights were flashing and the music was playing. He had never been too much for the nightlife scene, but he could appreciate the occasional night out on the town. 

A jazz tune rang out somewhere in the distance, the smooth swing of the saxophone dancing through the night—drifting in and out of the street every time someone opened the doors to one of those fancy clubs along the road. The smell of expensive cologne fogged up the air, which was abuzz with the chatter of those who stood in the long lines waiting for their shot at getting in. 

However, the clubs were not what he was here for.

Swerving into the art gallery, he pointedly ignored the name printed on the glass in damning black. **_Kageyama Tobio Gallery_ **.

“So, is this your gallery?”

“One of them,” Kageyama answered with blunt honesty.

“Where are the others?”

“There’s going to be a new one opening in the other parts of Japan,” Kageyema started, oblivious to the obviously flirting tone being thrown his way. “I’m going to expand beyond Tokyo, and then across the globe.”

The man chuckled, an easy smile drawing across his lips.

“So, is this the only one that exists then?”

“Physically, yes.” Kageyama nodded, a serious look on his face as he turned his attention away from the man. 

His eyes swept the gallery, where people were mingling and drinks were being served. Various paintings and collections of art were on display tonight, and the turnout of guests was only improving by the day. He had spent a lot of time curating the pieces and making sure that everything was good, but he had long given up trying to make things perfect. They were good, this way. He was happy with how things were turning out.

The art on the walls here were all his, but it didn’t start out that way. Gone were the days of crime and petty theft, and gone were the days of riskier dealings and stealing paintings. He had moved beyond that, left it all in the past, and now he was here, at the top again. This time was different. He was here because of his own hard work and skill. He had spent too long struggling to climb to the top to not enjoy the fruits of his effort. 

It took him a while to see a very familiar figure striding towards him with a vengeance.

“Excuse me one second,” he said, tearing away from the man’s company.

He hurried across the room.

“Oikawa-san,” Kageyama said in half part disbelief and half part relief. He studied Oikawa with an intensity, like he was not entirely convinced that he wasn’t staring at a mirage or hallucinating. “I’ve been meaning to get in touch.”

“Me too,” Oikawa said, voice dripping with a biting sweetness. “Except for the fact that I’ve been in _prison_ , and we don’t have phones there.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the art—”

Oikawa pressed something sharp and shiny into Kageyama’s side.

They were standing close enough such that nobody would spy anything strange in the crowd.

“Tell me, _Tobio-chan_.” Oikawa leaned in, biting down on the nickname. A slow, cunning smile spread across his face. “Do you know what a shiv is?”

“Oikawa-san—” Kageyama’s breath hitched.

“Oikawa-san this, Oikawa-san that,” Oikawa laughed bitterly. “No need to be so formal.”

“What are you playing at?” Kageyama said, trying to steady his breathing. His hands were clenching and unclenching at his side, as if he couldn’t decide whether to draw away or not. He could try to run for it, Oikawa thought, but it would be futile anyway.

“Such a nice, young face,” Oikawa murmured into his ear. He started to drag the shiv upwards, making sure to slide it up the expensive fabric of Kageyama’s tailored suit. “Sure would be a shame if something were to happen to it.”

“I’ll call the police,” Kageyama bit out. “This is _my gallery_.”

“Your gallery, huh?” Oikawa said, voice dangerously low and quiet. “How did you get here? Have you forgotten all that has happened five years before? Have you forgotten me?”

Kageyama remained silent, refusing to meet his stare.

“Okay, so that’s how it is.” Oikawa said, his stare unbreaking. He would never forget what Kageyama did to him. “Do you know what we do with snitches?”

Kageyama’s breath caught in his throat.

Sweeping the sharp end under one of his buttons, Oikawa sawed it off in one clean swipe. Holding up the button to Kageyama’s face, he smiled a sickly sweet smile. It didn’t begin to hide the rage boiling behind his eyes, a world of hurt searing beneath the surface. Five years and he didn’t feel any less destroyed about it. He doubted he ever would.

Kageyama was at a loss for words, unsure of how to react. 

Turning on his heel, Oikawa marched off through the crowd, leaving the gallery owner standing in the center of the room—speechless.

“He saw you?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“ _Why_ would you do something like that?” Iwaizumi asked, incredulous.

“Closure?” Oikawa shrugged, lifting the sushi to his lips.

“Bullshit!” Iwaizumi’s eyes were stormy with disapproval.

Oikawa chuckled.

The sushi was good. The salmon was clean and fresh, the rice perfect. He had always had a thing for konbini sushi, and he might just be able to say that it was near the top of the list for things he had missed in prison. Prison food was pretty shit, but he got by. 

He slid the shiv across the table.

“Jesus.” Iwaizumi picked it up, inspecting it under the warm light. It was fashioned out of the non-bristle end of a toothbrush. “So, did you…?”

He made a stabbing motion with the shiv.

“No.” Oikawa picked up more sushi with his chopsticks.

“Good,” Iwaizumi huffed, narrowing his eyes at Oikawa. “I would have killed you after.”

“Just a little button.” 

Oikawa slid the black button across the table too.

Iwaizumi couldn’t help but bark out a laugh.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Always have been, and always will be.” Oikawa smiled.

Iwaizumi’s stare lingered on his face for a little longer than usual. It was a smile that he hadn’t seen in years, one that always came out when Oikawa didn’t notice it. It was a little part smug, a little part vulnerable, and a little part soft. It was unguarded and easy and subtle, but so beautiful. He didn’t smile like that with anyone else.

God, how he had missed Oikawa.

They ate in thoughtful silence for a little while after. 

“Why do you even like that?” Oikawa asked, scrunching up his nose at Iwaizumi’s _anpan_. The red bean filling of the bun was enough to clog all his taste buds from a distance away. He never understood how Iwaizumi could like something so sweet.

“How is this any better than you liking milk bread?” Iwaizumi scoffed. “It’s healthier.”

“Keep telling yourself those lies, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa said, waving his hand as if that would make the bun go away. “Milk bread is for the cultured, no wonder you don’t like it.”

Reaching across the table, Iwaizumi smacked down hard on the back of Oikawa’s hand.

“Hey!” he yelped. “Mean Iwa-chan, I’m only telling the truth!”

Iwaizumi harrumphed.

They lapsed back into silence again, more comfortable this time.

This felt familiar. 

“You don’t need to compare yourself to him, you know.”

Oikawa showed no reaction, but Iwaizumi did not miss the slight twitch of his hand.

“What he did, none of us could have seen it coming.” _It’s not your fault, Oikawa_.

“I _know_.”

Oikawa looked up to meet his eyes.

Iwaizumi didn’t know how he managed to miss it, but he could see the weariness on Oikawa’s face now. It didn’t look any different at first glance, but he was starting to see the heaviness of his cheeks and the stark cut of his nose. His lips were a little more fixed now, his expressions controlled and minute. His brow was ever so slightly more furrowed, like the years had knitted them closer and closer together just a little every day. 

However, he also noticed the blaze in Oikawa’s eyes, a darkness that had lit on fire. It was a determination that burned through the pain and the loneliness, and damn if Oikawa wasn’t one of the most resilient individuals that Iwaizumi ever had the fortune (or misfortune) of knowing. He had always been persistent, but this time round it was harder, tougher, more hell-bent. Oikawa was older now, _they_ were older now. The years have been hard for the both of them, but they have always risen up stronger than they were before. Maybe things weren’t so different after all.

A flash of something crossed Oikawa’s eyes as he spoke again. 

“I’m doing this for me, Iwa-chan. For us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised longer scenes and longer chapters but this length of chapter felt right for the scenes involved.
> 
> here are my [socials](https://thericeraven.carrd.co)


	4. a lofty proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which plans are set into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, the introduction of the (in)famous Miya Atsumu.

“So at first, I thought banks. ‘Cause you know.’

“That’s where they have money?” Iwaizumi helpfully provided.

“Exactly, but that’s kind of boring,” Oikawa sighed. “So then I thought ten banks.”

Iwaizumi flashed him a look.

“Then I realized that would perhaps be coming from an angry place, so…”

“Good that you realized,” Iwaizumi scoffed.

He was decked out in another leather jacket, one that Oikawa had never seen on him before. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that Iwaizumi looked good in those goddamn leather jackets, the tight black leather betraying the curvature of his biceps. He must have been working out these few years that Oikawa had been gone. Oikawa always did love those arms.

They passed a familiar set of double glass doors, gleaming gold in the morning sun. 

“Ah, the Belken hotel,” Oikawa reminisced. “I’m familiar.”

“Been here before?”

“Oh, yes.” Oikawa gave Iwaizumi a conspiratorial smile.

“You are literally so shady.”

“We’re literally criminals, Iwa-chan,” he huffed. “I think I’m allowed to be shady to my heart’s content.”

Iwaizumi shook his head in disappointment.

Continuing onwards, they passed several shops and a bakery. The city was drenched in beautiful golden light, illuminating their path as they walked alongside each other. Iwaizumi walked with the gait of a lumbering bear, a bear with a scowl who put its hands in its pockets. He didn’t stand out in a crowd, but people moved out of his way like it was the most natural thing in the world. Steadfast, Oikawa used to call him. A strange descriptor for a criminal, but one that turned out to be a most valuable characteristic.

Meanwhile, Oikawa walked around town with a small smile on his face, looking much like he was always thinking about something amusing. Or always watching someone slip and fall. The two were not mutually exclusive. If Iwaizumi’s brand was leather jackets, Oikawa’s was trench coats. He couldn’t get enough of the swishy feeling and the coat draping around his legs as he walked. It made him feel quite powerful, and lent him an air of mystery. 

Iwaizumi snorted. _What a dork_.

“I couldn’t even hear myself think,” Oikawa said. “You know, what with this nasty thing called cellmates and all. You’d think people would learn how to shut up in jail.”

“Well, I can say that they certainly do not,” Iwaizumi snorted.

“So I got myself thrown in solitary, you know. For a little peace and quiet.” Oikawa gestured vaguely with one hand. “And that’s where I finally came up with it.”

They arrived at the street corner. 

Oikawa stared into the distance, expecting Iwaizumi to follow suit.

Iwaizumi turned to face the grand facade of stone. Huge banners promoting the display of ancient artifacts and valuable paintings adorned the entrance, throngs of visitors streaming inside. The building must have spanned several streets, tall pillars and majestic architecture a testament to its importance. 

_The National Museum of Art_.

He was speechless, both impressed and in disbelief.

Beside him, Oikawa grinned in excitement.

“It’s still a museum.”

“So?” Oikawa sipped on his tea. Ah, he loved a good cup of earl grey. Especially when it came with crepes. Strawberry cream crepes were his favorite. So sweet and light and fluffy that it tasted like heaven. He hadn’t been to this cafe in a very long time, obviously. Of course he was going to make the most of his peaceful Sunday mornings, by doing the two things that soothed his nerves the most: drinking tea and doing crime.

“So, it’s not like robbing a liquor store.”

“ _Blahhdshhadebua._ ” 

“What the fuck, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi huffed. “Swallow your food before you talk.”

“Are you my mother, Iwa-chan?”

The look on Iwaizumi’s face was phenomenal.

“Okay, okay!” Oikawa threw his hands up in surrender. “Before you hit me, I _said_ ‘we’re not robbing a museum, we’re robbing someone in a museum’.”

“ _In_ a museum.” Iwaizumi frowned. “Yeah, you mentioned.”

Not only was it in a museum, it was in _the_ museum. They were right back to where it all started. Trust Oikawa to devise such a fantastically bad idea.

He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table like a goon. Honestly, you’d think a club owner catering to the elite would have more table manners.

“Look. Even if this was possible—”

“It _is_ possible.”

“ _Even if it was_ , we’d need, like, twenty people and half a million dollars.”

“Seven,” Oikawa said resolutely.

“Seven million?” Iwaizumi asked, baffled.

“Seven people, and twenty grand,” Oikawa corrected, still chewing infuriatingly on his mouthful of crepe. That was one of his worser habits, he was hellbent on chewing food with his mouth open. He talked whenever he ate. Iwaizumi hated it.

“Remind me again why you need to do this.” _Why you need to bring back the past. Haven’t you had enough? What do you have left to prove?_

“Because it’s what I’m good at.” Oikawa shrugged, stabbing another piece of crepe with his fork. He met Iwaizumi’s stare challengingly, never once breaking eye contact as he stuffed the pastry in his mouth. _I have plenty left to prove, and I’m only just getting started_.

“Uh, sure.”

“You know what?” Oikawa said, finally setting his fork down. _Thank god for small mercies_ , Iwaizumi thought. “I’ve run this thing a thousand times. Every time I got caught, I fixed it. I found a way. And in three years, I wasn’t getting caught anymore. By the time I was paroled, it was running like clockwork. _Perfectly_.”

He bit down on that last word, blinking at Iwaizumi innocently.

“And you were there with me, every step of the way.”

 _Don’t look down, don’t look at his lips, don’t say it_.

“Wow, Trashykawa, is this a proposal?”

 _Fucking traitor_. His mouth was a fucking traitor. 

“Oh darling, I don’t even have a diamond yet,” Oikawa chuckled. “After this gig, though…”

He leaned in seductively, firing a wink in Iwaizumi’s direction.

Iwaizumi definitely didn’t blush. 

“Fucking hell, Oikawa. I’m not playing your stupid game.”

“Come on, do you really want to spend the rest of your life watering down vodka and conning drunk people, whatever it is you’re up to these days?” Oikawa burst out, drawing a few curious stares from around them. He lowered his voice. “You know what I’m capable of, Iwa-chan.”

“What you’re capable of is _bullshit_ , Oikawa.”

“I also know what you’re capable of, Iwa-chan.”

Why, oh why did he have to keep using that stupid nickname?

“It would be such a waste,” Oikawa continued.

Iwaizumi couldn’t help but let the memories wash over him. 

When they were kids, Oikawa was always so small and delicate, but he never let it show. He was always chock full of fighting spirit, playing with fire by going where he wasn’t supposed to and doing everything he was told not to. He was always looking around for opportunities and grabbing at them with his greedy little hands. Young Oikawa was so impatient. And so pushy. He used to show up at Iwaizumi’s door before the sun rose to make him go pick pockets with him. A dangerously fun hobby, it was, but one that the adults always said he would outgrow. Well, look where they were now.

Yes, Oikawa did always have that sparkle in his eyes, and the light never did go out. Prison was only one of the many things in his life that could’ve extinguished that fire, but it never did. In fact, prison may have taught Oikawa how to bide his time, how to lie in wait for the moment. He used his mind more now, analyzing every situation and every outcome, his every smile a practised move on a porcelain mask that he controlled. Make no mistake, he was still equally pushy, but at least he wasn’t so obvious about it now. 

Oikawa picked up his fork again and offered Iwaizumi some of his crepe. 

“Come on, Iwa-chan. Take a bite.”

Iwaizumi levelled him with an impressively unamused stare.

“Just take a bite,” Oikawa urged, softer. He waved the fork around temptingly in Iwaizumi’s face. “It’s really good. And you’re paying, after all.”

“You are so fucking irritating,” Iwaizumi said, opening his mouth anyway. 

“Open,” Oikawa shushed him, placing the crepe in his mouth.

Iwaizumi started to chew. 

His bottom lip was sticking out in some sort of half-pout half-scowl, which should have been intimidating given the nature of his character, but Oikawa decided that he looked cute. Positively adorable. Heart-wrenchingly beautiful. Even with his unwieldy gait and his spiky hair and his rough skin and his furrowed brow and his angry facial expressions, Iwaizumi was still gorgeous even after all these years. Oikawa didn’t know how he’d survive all these years in prison without him.

“That’s good,” Iwaizumi grumbled. He was going to regret this. 

“Very good.” Oikawa grinned, cutting himself more crepe.

The crowd and the ringing applause did nothing to diminish the grandeur of the place. It was all high ceilings and carved pillars and ambient light that crept in through the slats above the doors. Statues guarded every corner of the room, chiselled figures of marble that demonstrated the artistic prowess of people alive hundreds of decades ago. 

The museum had been opened up for a prestigious annual event: The Nationals Gala Exhibition Press Conference—and most of its audience consisted of potential sponsors, eager reporters, and about ten thousand cameras. It was a conference preceding the annual Nationals Gala—an even more prestigious event—a fundraiser for the museum they were currently standing in. Anybody who was anybody was invited to the gala, decked out in the most eccentric and stylish pieces to fit the theme of the night’s costume exhibit. It was a whole affair, one that was shrouded with a fair amount of secrecy despite its prestige.

“So, each year they host the biggest party in the world. And they always get a huge celebrity to host. This year, it’s Miya Atsumu.” 

Seated at the head of the room was none other than the celebrity in question, a practised smile on his face and a rousing speech at the ready. Miya Atsumu, actor and media personality extraordinaire. The media’s latest favorite pretty face. Even though one definitely shouldn’t believe everything one sees on the web, Miya Atsumu was nothing short of the golden boy that the cameras sought after, exuding charisma and an eagerness that the world fell in love with. His charm translated beautifully onto the big screen, and his acting was fairly decent. It came from a place of emotion, or so he claimed, something along the lines of method acting but _better_. Anyone who watched him at work was instantly enamored—it was hard not to be, not when he seemed so genuine and eager to learn, with a smile that dazzled millions and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Wow,” Iwaizumi deadpanned.

He wasn’t really one for theatrics and grand spectacles of fame and fortune, nor was he one for pop culture. Try as he might to be impressed by the sight of an actual celebrity not more than ten metres away from where they were standing, his true feelings still fell short of the grandeur it aimed to evoke.

“Yeah, but he’s not our mark,” Oikawa said.

They were pressed up against the wall on the left of the sea of cameras. It wasn’t hard getting into the place. Oikawa played the part of a stuffy businessman with inquiries and a ton of money well, and they were being shuffled into the crowd in no time. As annoying as the man could be, not even Iwaizumi could deny his eloquence. He could speak himself out of any pickle if he remained level-headed enough.

The cameras fired.

It was strange being back here again.

“All right, who wants to go first?” Atsumu asked, offering the crowd of cameras an award-winning smile.

A reporter stood up, smoothing down the front of her blazer.

“Do you know who you’re wearing?”

“Great question,” Atsumu said, looking down at himself. He was wearing a three-piece suit, with a beautiful ash black jacket and waistcoat embroidered with black roses, looking ever so sharp and dashing. It was fashionable, but not flashy. Chic, but not trashy. Intricate, but not messy.

“I’m wearing myself,” he offered simply.

“No, I mean who’s dressing you?”

“Ya know, I don’t really know yet,” Atsumu replied truthfully, a thoughtful look on his face. 

Oikawa turned to Iwaizumi with yet another one of his infuriating grins.

“The designer,” the reporter pressed.

“Wouldn’t y’guys want to know more about other things?” Atsumu tried. “Like my vision for the event? What I think about this year’s theme?”

The clicking of shutters increase., but nobody spoke.

“Nobody?”

The reporter was left standing in the sea of cameras.

“I don’t know yet.” Atsumu offered her a dazzling smile and an apologetic look. “But as soon as I do, you’ll be the very first person that I tell. Next question, please.”

A wall of arms shot up.

“All right,” Iwaizumi said, pointedly not meeting Oikawa’s stare. “So we need a designer.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

Iwaizumi wished he could slap the smile right off Oikawa’s pretty face.

What had he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I go deeper into the description, or is this painterly selection of details doing the trick?
> 
> Either way, the story is definitely amping up, and I have great plans for it. I work on this draft every time I want to jumpstart my creativity with a different draft so you can expect frequent updates for it.
> 
> here are my [socials](https://thericeraven.carrd.co)


	5. broke by design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Oikawa and Iwaizumi pay a visit to an eccentric fashion show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe tax evader Bokuto is canon

Iwaizumi held up a fashion brochure.

“We could target a lot of these designers, but Miya Atsumu won’t approve, and Miya Atsumu _has_ to approve.”

Oikawa could barely find anything in this mountain of magazines and papers, but he still attempted to flip through the mess anyway. How did Iwaizumi even work like this? He much preferred a cleaner and neater working surface for himself, but this was Iwaizumi’s domain now. His partner worked best in a chaotic and messy environment, a consequence of working in noisy clubs for years before they met. 

Now, Oikawa wasn’t too familiar with the fashion industry and its inner workings, but one thing was for sure. Miya Atsumu wouldn’t approve of just any random designer they plucked off the streets. But if there’s one thing that he knew about Miya Atsumu, it was that he was _involved_. He was involved with his personal life and involved with his work. He would never scorn a friendship or blow off personal connections because of his fame. He was a dedicated actor, but he always made time for his personal life. They could use this.

“There’s a few less established choices,” Iwaizumi continued, passing Oikawa a magazine. “But they’re not going to give us what we’re looking for, so.”

Oikawa studied the page in front of him.

“Bokuto Koutarou,” he read. “Why do I know that name?”

The glossy pages of the fashion magazine he held in his hands featured the name in bold, cursive script. Images of interesting fashion spreads spilled out across the pages, featuring bold and colorful messes of designs and finished outfits. The themes and parts that made up each outfit were outlandish, to say the least. 

“His work could’ve been big,” Iwaizumi recalled. “In the 90s.”

“God.” Oikawa scrunched up his face. “The Edwardian collars and the ruffles?”

“Travesty,” Iwaizumi agreed, shaking his head. “But Atsumu still likes him. They play volleyball together every other month or so, some little tradition they have. Met at a sports expo a few years ago and the rest was history. Look, Atsumu even has a few photos with him.”

Oikawa made a curious sound.

“Mmhm, but that’s not all.”

“There’s more?”

Iwaizumi fired him a look.

“He owes the National Tax Agency just odd of five hundred and twenty million yen.”

Oikawa would never stop being impressed with Iwaizumi’s skills.

The carpeted corridor echoed with their footsteps as they fell in sync.

“Why’s it always so dim in these things?” Oikawa wondered. 

“Maybe it’s a fashion thing.” Iwaizumi shrugged.

They were dressed to the nines, merely a necessity to blend in, or so Oikawa insisted. He was attired in a stylish blue knit turtleneck, half-tucked into a pair of dark grey cigarette pants and layered over with a smart blazer. A pair of circular black wire-frame glasses sat on his nose, and he held a notepad and pen in one hand, lending him the air of a pretentious and overachieving journalist. Perfect role for the event.

Meanwhile, Iwaizumi had shed the leather jacket for a tasteful grey suit jacket and black undershirt, complete with a satin tie the same color as his eyes. Oikawa had always loved how green his eyes were, but he would never tell him that. He would also never tell Iwaizumi how good he thought his arms looked in that suit. It gave him the air of an agent for a modelling company, which also suited their purposes fantastically. Oikawa was always trying to get Iwaizumi to dress up, so this was truly a treat for him. When else would he get to ogle his ass in those tight black dress pants?

“It’s bad,” Iwaizumi prefaced. “A lien on his assets. Impounded his passport. The bank seized his townhouse.”

“He sounds perfect for the job.”

They walked into a room with a sweeping arced staircase that split into two and framed the center of the room, the floor white and pristine. The barest of glass panes in the wall across the room let in a soft spell of sunlight, but the majority of the lighting came from the studio lights perched in strategic corners of the room. A panel of photographers stood huddled against the wall, the cameras going off as the models strutted into the light. 

Now this was a fashion show.

“Still amazing,” Oikawa remarked.

A line of men and women appeared at the top of the staircase, streaming down in orderly lines as they donned outfits that suggested a labored attempt at a combination of Victorian and Japanese themes. High buttons and lace bodices met with kimono designs and cherry blossom prints, the silhouettes clear and eccentric. It was a high feat, trying to marry the two cultures into tangible stylings to be presented on the runway, and Oikawa didn’t know enough about fashion to make a fair comment on what he thought about it. He was too busy staring at the ruffles and lace and satin in all manners of colors that made his eyes hurt a little. 

There was nothing amazing about the designs he was seeing in front of him, but he had to give a little credit to the designer for being so brave. 

“I think we got lucky,” Iwaizumi said. “He gambled everything on this show.”

Oikawa decided that it was quite courageous to put on such a risky fashion show while everything you owned was on the line. It was a daring attempt at combining new and old, one that the fashion industry might even call avant garde. Very experimental, very quirky, and very disastrous. Quite the sight, really.

“If the new line doesn’t take off, he could be prosecuted,” Iwaizumi added.

The models swanned in through the arc of the staircase overhead, breezing across the smaller staircase that opened out onto a viewing platform lined with chairs. Each and every one of these chairs was occupied by well-dressed people, no doubt a congregation of investors and celebrities and fashion critiques and other big names in the business, here to pitch in their say on the show and the eccentric designer’s reputation. Oikawa thought it was quite a cruel and unforgiving industry, being in fashion, maybe even more so than being in crime. 

They were seated in the front row, with a brilliant view of every unconventional outfit that went past, and a brilliant view of the marketing team who sat on the other end. They were whispering nervously among themselves, brows furrowed with worry and printed programmes gripped in hand.

“They look a little worried,” Oikawa leaned in to comment.

“Yeah, who could blame them? This is a _trainwreck_ ,” Iwaizumi murmured.

Many others in the crowd seemed to echo this sentiment, shaking their heads and turning to each other with horrified looks.

Oikawa sighed in contentment.

He had always found it quite curious to watch someone’s life fall apart before his eyes.

The backroom smelled of cheap champagne and packing peanuts. The chatter of models and their assistants milling around was interspersed throughout the room, and Oikawa threw out a silent word of respect to them. Lighting and sound directors were clustered off to one side as stylists rushed about, trying to make last-minute fixes for the last round of the show. A few publicists had managed to slip in amongst the chaos too. It wasn’t too hard with the frenzy of the fashion show.

Oikawa and Iwaizumi walked through the room, searching for a certain designer. They stepped past designer detritus, and torn fabric swatches littered across the floor.

“Iwa-chan.”

Oikawa nodded to the back of the room, where a few sobs could be heard coming from behind a pile of boxes. People were rushing to and fro, completely ignoring the weird sounds coming from behind the cardboard tower.

“Got it.”

They made their way towards the direction of the sobbing, only to find one very dishevelled fashion designer huddled up under a sewing table. Bokuto was curled in on himself, shovelling Nutella into his mouth straight out of the jar. He was hiding his face from the light as small sobs wracked through his broad shoulders. 

Oikawa and Iwaizumi traded a loaded look.

Iwaizumi coughed.

The fashion designer froze. Then, he turned to look at the two of them, the head of grey and black hair swivelling with him, probably held in place by some hair gel with the miraculous strength of god. They reminded Oikawa of horns. There were tear tracks running down his face, but he quickly wiped them away with the crook of his elbow, his eyebrows knitted together. He was wearing a fascinating coat with a funky black and white owl print, the sleeves flared out into wing-like shapes, providing an even more owl-like silhouette. 

“Congratulations.”

The distraught designer only looked up at him with confusion.

“Who are you?”

“Big fans,” Iwaizumi said.

“Very big,” Oikawa echoed.

“Oh,” Bokuto said, a sad smile on his face, as if he was just playing along. Then he held out the Nutella jar. “Want some?”

“We’ll pass,” Oikawa declined politely.

Bokuto nodded sadly and ate another spoon of the sweet, chocolatey stuff. It calmed him down and the sweetness kept his mind from plunging into the deep end of his emotions.

“The show was...a treat,” Iwaizumi started.

“No, it wasn’t,” Bokuto said, eyes wide. “That was a disaster.”

Iwaizumi traded a look with Oikawa.

“I think you’re being kind of hard on yourself,” he said. “ _Very_ hard on yourself.”

Bokuto continued to stare emptily at the two of them.

“Fine, the fashion show was a disaster,” Iwaizumi admitted. “We all make mistakes.”

Bokuto’s frown deepened.

“Doesn’t mean we get to sit around and mope about it.”

Bokuto set down the jar of Nutella and pulled out a phone. He handed it silently over to Iwaizumi, who sat down next to the designer, leaving Oikawa standing to watch the two.

“Look what they’re saying,” Bokuto said, voice low and sad. “I dream too big. I reach too far. I try to make things that people have never seen before and I fail—”

“Hey, hey,” Iwaizumi cut in. “Even if it’s true, so what?”

Bokuto stared at him.

“They want to see you fail,” Iwaizumi said. “I may not know fashion, but I know dreams. Big dreams don’t come true in a day, and they’ll probably fall and crash along the way. Sometimes you want dreams to fail, because it’ll only make it so much more satisfying once they become a reality. You can prove them all wrong.”

Oikawa nodded thoughtfully at the side. That was very true. He could vouch for that. He knew a thing or two about wanting to prove people wrong.

Bokuto had never thought about proving people wrong. He just wanted to do what made him happy, and make people happy by doing that. There were few things in the world that fit that, and he was starting to realize that fashion wasn’t one of them. 

“How did I even get here?” 

“Let’s see,” Iwaizumi recounted from his research. “You blew most of your cash on custom Neoprene prints, a walk-in closet that you never got around to furnishing, and a pig named Spike?”

Bokuto paused for a second, stiffening. 

“Right,” he mumbled, shoulders slumping down. “I can’t believe I thought I could ever be inspiring.”

“Inspiration comes in different forms,” Iwaizumi said seamlessly. He was honest and genuine with his answers, even if he didn’t know Bokuto. “You’ll have all the time in the world to be inspiring, but right now, you can’t do that if all you do is sulk and feel sorry for yourself.”

Iwaizumi had always been better at talking to people. He had this instant connection with people that Oikawa never had, even through his prickly and scowly demeanor. He knew just what to say, and he knew what they needed. People seemed to trust him, and they saw him as reliable and steadfast. Traits that a criminal wasn’t expected to have, but traits that only drew Oikawa in deeper. Sometimes it was easy to forget this side of Iwaizumi, and Oikawa found himself entranced every single time he got to see it. It never gets old.

“But I don’t have all the time in the world!” Bokuto burst out, looking down at the floor. “I’m in big trouble, and I don’t want to go to prison. I’m too young!”

“You won’t go to prison. I won’t let it happen,” Iwaizumi asserted.

“How do you know?”

“Because I believe that you can help us,” Iwaizumi said truthfully. 

“I can? How?”

“What if we could all make this go away?” Oikawa proposed, stepping forward into the light. “Get your passport back, get your townhouse back, even make your biggest dreams come true.”

“I can go pro with volleyball?”

“Sure, you can go pro.” Not what he was expecting, but Oikawa would go with that. A fashion designer turned pro volleyball player? What a thing. If Bokuto wanted to play volleyball, then play volleyball he shall. He could make that happen.

There was a long pause as Bokuto processed his words.

“What do I have to do?”

“Dress Miya Atsumu for the National Gala.”

Bokuto looked taken aback. 

“Wait, I know him,” he started to ramble. “We play volleyball together. He sets for me and he never gets tired of it, but sometimes he’s very distant and we’re not exactly friends but I would like to be but that’s up to him and wait—Are you playing a joke on me?”

Oikawa shook his head. 

“Wait. Are you journalists?”

“God, no,” Iwaizumi said, looking quite horrified.

“Are you angels sent from above?”

Oikawa gave him an amused look.

“I would hardly call myself an angel, but we’ll give you everything you need. You’ll have us on your side.”

“As long as you agree to help us,” Iwaizumi said. “Simple as that.”

His eyes were hard and stony, as if laden with a warning that was obvious even to Bokuto. He was making it clear that this was the designer’s last chance to turn down the offer, to turn down what could potentially be a life of running. Iwaizumi may be a criminal, but he was not cruel.

Bokuto thought long and hard, but his decision was no question.

“I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops it took me so long between chapter 4 and this one but I'm back  
> I'm working on like 9238749832 other projects right now so my updating schedule may not be as frequent and I'm trying to make each chapter good and work on representing them as good characters in this au so it may take a little more time
> 
> here are my [socials](https://thericeraven.carrd.co)


	6. the diamond in the rough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Oikawa convinces the jeweler to join them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, but I really wanted to focus a chapter on each member of the crew so here's Akaashi's

The history of jewellery-making dated back thousands of years, all the way back to prehistoric times, back to when the humans first walked the earth. Jewellery has been a notable part of human culture, witnessing the progression of important cultural rites: funerals, burials, weddings, births. It was used for protection, currency, connection, fashion, adornment, a variety of purposes that human history was sure to feel hollow without. Jewellery followed the advancement of social and cultural trends in human society, reflecting the very core of humanity in the variety of patterns, designs, and materials utilized by jewellers to craft these adornments. 

Jewellery making itself has advanced with the development of technology and the refinement of techniques over the decades, with jewellery makers fashioning and molding the way for these grand revelations. Being a jeweller was even considered an honor in some cultures back in the days, a role with as much prestige as a courtier or an advisor in the royal courts. Of course, this prestige has been dulled down a little, easing into a profession of modernity and convenience in this day and age. There were many jewelers around the world now, but even then, most couldn’t say that they were in the top percentile of skilled jewellery-makers. This translated into a world of opportunity and gain for a skilled jeweler in the modern day.

Akaashi was beginning to think that it was all a load of horseshit. If a skilled jeweler should be able to find career opportunities at every turn, then why was he stuck in his parents’ shop mending a necklace that barely avoided being called costume jewellery? It was obvious in the tint and the worn rhodium plating that the owner of said necklace had been played. It was a middle-aged woman, all high and haughty—strolling in through those glass doors with all the confidence of a tiny bulldog with no sense of the big world around it—demanding his services like he was obligated to bend to her every heed and call. Customers like these were quite the norm here, unfortunately. Akaashi had never been much of a people pleaser, which had led to some very furious customers which had to be dispelled in a less-than-pleasant manner.

No, there was nothing for him here in this tiny shop. He wouldn’t call himself a world-class jeweler, but he certainly trusted his own skills. He had worked his way up from the bottom, observing his parents and other industry professionals until his eyes grew blurry from studying the shine of jewels. He hadn’t been satisfied with simply sitting around and polishing the jewellery his parents made, so he had insisted on being taught the trade. He was mighty good at it too, if he was allowed to say so himself.

Rotating the magnifying visor between his fingers—a nervous tic he had picked up whenever he thought about the future and the present—he looked out the window absently. The shop window peered out onto a crowded side street, where all manners of pedestrians crossed the junction and swanned past. Their shop was only one of many on the streets, hawking their wares and offering their services. It was awfully mundane, and Akaashi often found himself searching for more in the hum of a passing car by day and the light of the street lamps by night. Today was no different. 

The crowd shifted and his breath caught.

Could it be?

Setting down his tools, he stood up and brushed himself off.

His parents could hold down the fort in his absence.

“What are you doing here?” Akaashi ventured. He was never one to beat around the bush.

“I might have something for you,” Oikawa said.

They moved through the crowd, following the flow and easing into the busy streets. 

Akaashi gave him a look.

“A job,” Oikawa continued.

“You want to run some stuff at the store?” Akaashi raised an eyebrow. He knew perfectly what kind of job Oikawa meant, but he couldn’t play his hopes up yet.

“A little more than that.” 

They continued walking in contemplative silence.

“How long would it take for you to make seven pieces of jewellery if the stones were already cut?” Oikawa glanced out onto the roads, past the bakery and the marketplace.

“Probably five or six hours,” Akaashi replied. He hated it when people rushed him on a job. Which happened more often than he would like to admit. Probably why he wasn’t suited for a job of convenience and pleasing the customers. He would rather reserve his patience for the jewellery-making itself.

“How long would it take if I told you that you don’t have to work for your parents anymore?”

Akaashi stilled.

“Less,” he answered definitively.

Oikawa grinned.

“But this is not how I want to make a name for myself,” Akaashi said. 

The gears were turning in Oikawa’s head. He had to be a little smart here, play a different angle. Akaashi was clever, and intuitive. He could probably see through all of Oikawa’s facades at once if he even so much as said the wrong word. What would it take to convince the jeweler?

“Not even if a certain fashion designer was there with you?”

Akaashi froze.

 _Bingo_.

“Do _not_ drag him into this,” Akaashi said, his voice low and dangerous. “He has no idea what he’s getting into.”

“On the contrary,” Oikawa replied. “I would say he knows exactly what he’s getting into.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Enough,” Oikawa said.

Akaashi’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“We told him all our terms,” Oikawa continued. “We gave him a choice. He accepted it.”

“Nobody chooses a life of crime.”

“Yet here I am, offering you the choice.”

Akaashi had sunk into an indecipherable silence.

“Look,” Oikawa sighed. “I know what it’s like to not be able to give the one you love what they need.”

Akaashi stared at him, his eyes stormy.

“I know what’s like to feel like you’re not enough.”

The crowd swirled around them as they stopped in the middle of the road.

“I know what it’s like to feel like you deserve so much more, that you know you can have it all, if only you’d have the chance to.”

Akaashi looked down at the ground, wrestling with his own thoughts. It would be so easy to just give in, to agree. It would solve all his problems, and more. He was being given a chance—the chance to see so much more beyond that dingy little shop window he sat behind every day, the chance to take what he wanted and see how far he could go with his skills, the chance to make a name for himself away from the reaches of his parents.

“I’m giving you that opportunity,” Oikawa said. “But you must want it as well. I’ll leave if you tell me that it’s not what you want.”

Akaashi wanted to deny it, but he would be lying. He could refuse, he could fight and struggle against his true desire, and he could go back right now to the comfort and safety of the little shop and all its petty trinkets. He could say no, but he knew he never could. His parents may have taught him the true meaning of jewellery-making, but they never could give him the self-autonomy that he so craved.

His silence told Oikawa all he needed to know.

“You have my word that we will protect him however we can,” Oikawa assured.

Akaashi looked up. 

“It’s all you now. Do you accept the job?”

The jeweler nodded.

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me so long between this and the last chapter due to other events, but I am Back. 
> 
> here are my [socials](https://thericeraven.carrd.co)


	7. code to crack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Iwaizumi recruits a hacker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oikawa, meeting kodzuken: the audacity of this bitch

“I am never taking the bus again,” Oikawa declared, storming into the foyer.

“He’s in.” Iwaizumi waved his hand to beckon Oikawa over to the sofa. He was staring very intently at the laptop screen that a stranger was currently tapping away at—a stranger with blond hair and the most apathetic expression a human being was capable of making on his face.

“He’s in...where?” Oikawa walked over anyway.

“Is this what you’re talking about? A bunch of vases?” The stranger’s voice was soft but rough, sounding like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Yep, that’s the Egyptian wing,” Iwaizumi confirmed. 

The museum wing popped up on the screen, visitors swirling through the glass and metal exhibits. The screen was looking in on the room from a high corner, and it afforded them a full view of every nook and cranny of the place. 

“He’s in the museum?” Oikawa whispered, almost as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Security cameras.” Iwaizumi looked up, a slow smile starting to spread across his face.

Oikawa blinked, mildly impressed.

“There’s a lot of them,” the stranger remarked.

“My name’s Oikawa.”

The stranger stared up at him like he was staring at a plain puddle on the road.

“Kodzuken.”

“What’s your real name?” Oikawa challenged his unwavering stare.

“Kodzuken.”

“We use real names around here.”

Iwaizumi stood up.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Oikawa nodded, still not breaking the stare as he turned to follow Iwaizumi behind a wall a few metres away. 

“I asked you to get me a hacker.”

“He’s one of the best hackers in the country,” Iwaizumi defended.

“But the name—”

“He has other clients who don’t know his real name either,” Iwaizumi jumped in.

“Sorry, other clients?” Oikawa turned to look him in the eye. “ _ Now _ ?”

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi said.

“Did you tell him what his cut was?”

There was a pause. 

“Of course,” Iwaizumi replied.

“And?”

Iwaizumi shrugged slowly.

Oikawa sighed.

“Look, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi began.

“You’re going to give me one of your ‘everything’s going to be alright and you don’t have to worry your head off’ speeches again, aren’t you?”

Iwaizumi pressed his lips into a thin line. 

“No.”

That was a lie. Oikawa was way too perceptive for his own good sometimes. 

“I know,” Oikawa sighed again. “I might be coming across as too worried about every small detail now, but I’m just trying to cover all our bases. Precision is very important to me here. I need to make sure that there’s no loose ends, no missing piece.”

“And I know that too, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi said. “But I’m asking you to trust my decision.”

Oikawa looked down at the ground. The moment he had put Iwaizumi in charge of recruitment was the moment he had surrendered all trust to him. Well, if Oikawa was really being honest here, he had already started trusting Iwaizumi a long time ago, way before prison and way before his failure. Trust wasn’t something he could just dole out in the dozens, but if he had to, it would all go to Iwaizumi first and foremost. 

“Can you trust me?” Iwaizumi continued, a little softer this time, as if he was afraid of knowing what Oikawa’s answer would be.

Oikawa nodded. 

That was all the confirmation that Iwaizumi needed.

They walked out from behind the wall.

“So,  _ Kodzuken _ ,” Oikawa started, staring at the hacker for good now. He looked too young to be a seasoned hacker—but then again, looks could be deceiving. Oikawa should know the merits of getting into the industry at a younger age, when your face was fresh and your smile deceivingly trustworthy. “Do I just call you Kodzuken?”

“Ken’s fine too, if the whole thing’s too much for you to say,” Kodzuken gazed up at him through his hooded eyes and from behind the wispy fringe that draped across his head from under his beanie. “Kodzu works too, I’m not picky.”

Oikawa squinted.

“I think I’ll just stick with Kodzuken.”

The hacker shrugged, eyes returning to his screen.

Oikawa gave Iwaizumi a look.

“Also.”

Kodzuken held up his screen.

“You know your footprint’s a disaster, right?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Oikawa leaned in.

“Your footprint,” Kodzuken repeated, as if simply repeating it would clear things up.

“My footprint?”

“Yup,” Kodzuken said, pulling up more windows. “If you’re planning to steal, you definitely have to clean this up. Right now, even my little brother could hack you.”

“I can’t tell if you’re serious,” Oikawa said.

“Well, I don’t have a little brother, but if I did, he would be able to.”

Oikawa frowned.

“Here.”

Kodzuken pressed a button.

They were plunged into darkness, the lights in the foyer going out.

“What was that?” Oikawa said.

Kodzuken pushed another button.

The lights came back on.

“Your footprint,” the hacker replied simply. He started to toy with the lights using the buttons on his keyboard, dimming them and turning them all the way up. Oikawa could sense the smugness in his manner even though he betrayed no expression on his face.

Iwaizumi gave Oikawa a look.

Oikawa sighed.

“Gotcha,” Iwaizumi said, nodding to their new hacker.

“Now clean that up,” Oikawa said, taking a leap of faith.

Kodzuken smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short ass chapter, but I'm getting through these before getting to the longer chapters
> 
> here are my [socials](https://thericeraven.carrd.co)


	8. sleight of hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Oikawa and Iwaizumi visit a park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love the idea of street con Hinata goddammit

“Just you wait and see,” Iwaizumi said as they emerged from the train station “This guy has some of the best hands I’ve ever seen.”

“Is this one sane?” Oikawa asked, flashing him a look.

“One hundred percent.” Iwaizumi nodded, sealing the silent agreement between them never to speak of  _ that _ incident again. 

It was a beautifully bleary morning, the sun hidden behind some clouds and the ominous shadow of rain trailing in their wake. The perfect day to recruit the sixth member of their crew. This better be good. Oikawa had to get up early for this.

They strolled into a park—with beautiful lush greenery and an extraordinary sense of normalcy—and sat down on a bench. Right across the grass was a crowd of people who had gathered around to watch. Seated behind said table was a boy who looked young enough to be in his twenties, his orange hair hidden underneath a beanie and a dusty-looking hoodie around his shoulders. What was it with beanies these days? He had three cards laid out in front of him on a makeshift table fashioned out of a cardboard box, and the most blindingly brilliant smile on his face. Oikawa found himself wondering what he was doing out on the streets with that jubilantly youthful face. 

“Really?” Oikawa scoffed. “Three-card Monte?”

Iwaizumi just nodded silently towards the game that was about to go down.

“Alright, here’s how we play it,” the street con boy explained to his mark, who was a middle-aged man with an ugly blue pullover. His voice should be illegal, nobody gets to sound this cheerful at this hour of morning. Simply unheard of. “Red is money. Find the queen and live your dream. Don’t sleep, or she might disappear.”

He moved his hand up and down three times. The card was gone.

“See that?”

The man nodded, his eyes widening, impressed.

“She’s coming back though, she likes you,” he said, the card reappearing in his hands.

Oikawa hummed. So this boy knew how to talk.

“Alright, here we go.” The boy started to mix the cards on the box. “We’re following the queen, don’t take your eyes off her.”

The man’s eyes were practically glued to the box. Oikawa scoffed. He had already lost before they even started. Sleight of hand and misdirection were a street con’s best friend. It was a game of deception, and the mark wasn’t the one playing this game. It was the con who was playing them. Three-card Monte was a confidence game, one that tricked the mark into playing a game that they couldn’t win. A charming street con would certainly have this simple card game in their arsenal.

The street con continued to shuffle the cards.

The mark continued to stare.

“Is this our only choice?”

“Nah, the number of pickpockets around are huge,” Iwaizumi replied. He had a feeling that this was the one they were looking for, though.

The cards stopped.

“Now where is the queen?” The street con beamed at his mark. He had the man cornered like a rat in a trap with nowhere to run.

The man pointed to the middle card nervously.

The street con scrunched up his nose.

“You sure about that? Sure you don’t want another pick?”

Ah, the classic misdirection of a worried face.

The man shook his head.

The street con flipped the card.  _ Jack of Hearts _ .

“Aw, man! Better luck next time.” He stood up and shoved the money into his pocket. Then he shook the man’s hand. “No hard feelings, right?”

Oikawa was watching intently as the street con gave the man a hug and patted him on the back. The man was absolutely oblivious to the fact that his watch had just disappeared off his wrist and was currently in the hands of the smiling street con, who hurriedly shoved it into his hoodie.

“Come back next time!” he called out after the man. 

“Not bad,” Oikawa remarked.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Iwaizumi agreed.

“Turkey, and cheese please.”

They were pressed into a little Subway onto the corner of a busy street, where the smell of freshly-baked bread and the scent of a grand heist hovered in the air.

“So, I’m stealing one necklace?” 

“It’s a very nice necklace,” Oikawa said, noting that Hinata wasn’t afraid to use the word ‘steal’. A good sign, already.

The worker shifted the half-constructed sandwich to the vegetable section.

“Lettuce,” Hinata considered. “And tomato.”

Oikawa appraised his attire. He was thinking about ribbing Iwaizumi for simply dragging in some random hoodlum off the streets for the greatest heist of their lifetimes, but the more he thought about it, the more he understood why Hinata would be a good choice. They needed someone who wasn’t afraid to steal, who wasn’t too high and mighty about the whole criminal thing, someone who was younger and knew the outside world. They weren’t looking for a polished professional with too many secrets and a long history. They were looking for someone who needed the money, someone who wouldn’t ask for more. 

“And the money, it’s real?” 

“One hundred percent,” Iwaizumi replied.

“Okay,” Hinata said. “I’m in.”

Oikawa nodded. Hinata fit the bill just right.

“Great,” Iwaizumi said.

Hinata turned to get his sandwich at the counter.

“Can I have my watch back please?” Oikawa folded his arms.

Freezing in his tracks, Hinata slowly walked back to Oikawa’s side. With a slightly sheepish but absolutely mischievous face, he fished the silver watch out of his hoodie pocket and handed it back to Oikawa. 

“And his as well?” Oikawa nodded to Iwaizumi.

Iwaizumi looked down at his empty wrist, blinking as he took back his watch.

“Sorry,” Hinata said, turning to get his sandwich again.

“It’s okay,” Oikawa replied.

Iwaizumi nodded, impressed.

“I think I like him,” Oikawa chuckled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here are my [socials](https://thericeraven.carrd.co)


	9. all fenced in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Oikawa pays a visit to an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the idea of Sugawara being so dangerous and capable in crime and then struggling to make a green smoothie amuses me to no end

It was going to work this time. He had followed the steps. He had done everything that he had to do. He had been preparing for this very moment. He wouldn’t fail this time. It had to work. He was at his wit’s end already. What he wouldn’t give to just do this one thing right.

Sugawara inhaled deeply. He could do this.

With a sure hand, he reached out. He held his breath, as if one small wayward movement could shatter his entire premise. It was just a short distance. He could make it without letting anything fall. Noises swirled in the background, people were screaming and shouting. He couldn’t let any of it distract him, though.

Finally, he moved in for the kill. With one swift motion, he scooped up the freshly-chopped spinach and dropped it into the blender. _Phew_. Nothing had gone to waste. One cup of spinach. Spinach was a nice vegetable. He had no grievances against it—unlike broccoli. 

For good measure, he leaned over to check the recipe, to check that he was on the right step and didn’t somehow veer so far off path that he was making a different drink altogether. Sugawara wasn’t one to play by the book all the time (only if it suited him), but he did find some degree of solace in clear-cut steps and instructions. There was an order to it that pleased him. The same went for this recipe. He wasn’t about to let himself be bested by a green smoothie.

 _Thud_ . _Thud_ . _Thud_.

The kids were playing ball again. No matter. He could not deviate from his mission. Picking up the cup of spirulina powder, he emptied that into the blender next. He couldn’t afford to lose his concentration. It was one of his greatest traits, or so he would like to say. Losing even a modicum of his focus could result in a huge and catastrophic disaster: making a mess of his own kitchen.

 _Bang_ . _Bonk_.

Sugawara sighed.

“Noya? Tanaka?” he called out. The shuffling of feet and the sound of a ball thudding around in the living room outside paused. “Can you do me a favor and take it outside?”

As much as he loved watching them play volleyball and practising hard with their skills, sometimes it got a little too much around here. He didn’t work well with noise, and it was one of the greatest obstacles standing in the way of his unwavering focus. He didn’t need the sounds of his walls being desecrated by a volleyball while he was trying to figure out the ingredients. This smoothie was going to be his crowning glory. 

“Sorry, Suga-san!” Nishinoya called back. 

Sugawara chuckled to himself. He was barely a year or two older than them and he already felt like he was growing older by the day. How did the kids these days have so much energy lying around inside them? He wasn’t by any means their mother, but he sure felt like one at times.

He grabbed the container of frozen fruit next.

 _Brrrrring_.

Now what could that be? 

He leaned over the counter to check the caller ID and his face fell. Looking around to make sure nobody was anywhere near the kitchen, he answered it.

“Oikawa,” Sugawara said. “I am with my family, I told you—”

“ _I’m outside_.”

Sugawara froze.

“What?”

“ _Come to the garage_.”

The line went dead. 

Sugawara sighed deeply, already regretting it as he set off for the garage door.

The lights went flickering on as the smell of packing tape and cardboard kicked up in a cloud by the door. Shelves and shelves stacked up with appliances and goods of all sorts greeted him as he walked in, sitting and waiting with shiny surfaces and polished sides. 

“ _Oikawa_?”

He moved past the row of Sodastream boxes. 

“Oikawa? Is that really you?”

Weaving between the electronic scooters and the blenders, Sugawara walked faster towards a familiar figure standing between the shelves meshed together at the back. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you were in jail.”

Oikawa was sucking on a red lollipop—cherry, presumably—and sweeping his eyes over the mountain of branded leather bags and wallets piled neatly on the shelf behind him. Branded bags had never been his taste. He thought it far too impractical and gaudy to own one, they were much better for procuring capital, and it appeared that Sugawara thought the same.

“Mm, I got out.”

Sugawara walked tentatively towards Oikawa, as if he was just a figment of his imagination, a figure of the past. Oikawa looked exactly the same as he did five years ago, when Sugawara had last seen him—same fiery determination in his eyes and an attitude to boot. Even in the dim light of the garage, it wasn’t hard to determine that he had a plan in mind. 

“Look at all this,” Oikawa remarked, sweeping his hand over a mountain bike. They were lined up on bicycle stands embedded into the wall, taking up the entire right side of the garage, with brand new tyres and clean sides. “I thought you retired.”

Sugawara’s mouth dropped open, before he promptly shut it.

“I did.”

“Hm,” Oikawa hummed, putting a Keurig coffee maker back on the shelf. He could use one of those. “Not as exciting as hijacking trucks that are smuggling dishwashers from Canada, right?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t do that anymore,” Sugawara asserted, backing away as Oikawa started to advance towards him. 

“But you’re still very good at it.”

“Thank you,” Sugawara replied, his eyes flaring up.

“So, these are all for personal use right?” Oikawa ran a finger over the smooth paint job of the closest bicycle.

“What do you _want_?” Sugawara broke first.

Oikawa turned to him, lollipop twirling about his fingers.

“Just wanna, _reconnect_.”

“Hm, yeah? Reconnect?” Sugawara blinked at him, voice laced with skepticism.

“You’re not bored out here, are you Suga?” 

Sugawara’s back hit a wall of boxes.

“No, I’m not bored out here at all,” he said, a little too defensively.

“Good, good good,” Oikawa pondered.

“No, not at all.”

“Great,” Oikawa continued. “How’s Sawamura doing?”

Sugawara felt his stomach drop.

“Don’t bring my family into this.”

“I’m just being polite,” Oikawa replied.

“I’m going to ask you for the last time,” Sugawara sighed. “Why are you here?”

“Because I need a fence,” Oikawa jumped straight to the point. All this beating around the bush was a specialty of his, but he liked to be direct too.

“I told you I don’t do that anymore,” Sugawara said. “I’m out.”

“It’s a big job,” Oikawa said.

“I don’t care.”

Sugawara couldn’t easily be enticed in the same way as Iwaizumi did. He had a home now, a family, people he actually cared about. Oikawa was aware of his dream to start a new life away from crime, one that he always talked about back in the old days when they used to run jobs together. It used to be but a distant hope, a notion that was entertaining and fun to think about, but Oikawa knew how serious Sugawara could be when it came to his loved ones.

“Hm,” Oikawa said. “Do you want me to tell you how big the job is?”

“No, I really don’t—”

“I’m gonna tell you how big the job is.” Oikawa leaned in.

Sugawara may be committed to the people he cared about, but he still had a fire in his heart—one that yearned for the thrill of the chase and the pressure of high stakes and risks to take. Oikawa could still feel it. He could see it with his own eyes. Sugawara could even be more ambitious than Oikawa back in the days, with a hunger that was both impressive and lethal. Surely he couldn’t be satisfied and content with just sitting around playing homemaker and making smoothies?

Oikawa whispered something into Sugawara’s ear.

Sugawara was still staring in silence when he pulled back.

“Are you kidding?”

“No,” Oikawa said resolutely.

“Suga-san!” Tanaka came crashing in through the door. “Are you in here?”

Oikawa ducked behind the wall of boxes.

“Uh, yeah! What’s up?” Sugawara called back. 

“When’s dinner going to be ready?” Tanaka yelled.

“I’ll be right there!” Sugawara yelled back. “Sorry, I’ll be right there!”

He motioned at Oikawa to shut up.

“But I’m hungry!” Tanaka’s pout could be heard all the way from here.

“I swear I’ll be right there!” Sugawara yelled again. “Can you please just microwave a snack or something first? I’m busy.”

The sound of footsteps echoed through the garage, and Tanaka was gone.

“Thanks a lot,” Sugawara said, giving Oikawa a death glare.

“He sounds sweet,” Oikawa remarked, shrugging.

Collapsing back onto the wall of boxes, Sugawara folded his arms and hefted out another sigh. This was so going to take a few more years off his lifespan.

“How do you explain all this to your husband?” Oikawa whispered, gesturing to all the stolen goods around the garage. As far as he knew, Daichi was a respectable man with a respectable job, and by respectable he meant normal, plain, boring, _not illegal._ Was he even aware of Sugawara’s past? Probably. Sugawara was all about honesty and openness, yet another trait that criminals were not expected to have, and one that benefited him in his role. Still, Oikawa couldn’t fathom how Daichi could have been okay with this. 

Sugawara paused.

“Taobao?”

Oikawa thought for a second and nodded. Fair enough.

Standing in the silence of the dim garage, two friends leaned against a wall of boxes, years of unspoken words between them. Even with the weight of all those words on their tails, they didn’t need to talk anymore. 

A silent agreement had been made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so finally the recruitment is complete. 
> 
> also Taobao is like. the Chinese equivalent of Ebay 
> 
> here are my [socials](https://thericeraven.carrd.co)


End file.
